


The Navel Treaty

by redscudery



Series: Redscudery's Rare Pair Bazaar [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Caning, Dom/sub, F/M, Food, Food Sex, Gently, I didn't even really ship this, Lady Smallwood is a badass, Look it Up, Mycroft likes suffering, again ish, and she likes making Mycroft suffer, except now I do, grapefruiting, ish, man I do not know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: Sometimes you just need to relax, especially when you're the British government. Lady Smallcroft watches YouTube videos...and Mycroft reaps the benefits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [chucksauce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksauce/pseuds/chucksauce) for the beta that helped me get out of the woods on this one.
> 
> Grapefruiting is a thing, apparently: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMbovW3xK_U. Don't blame me.

“And here,” said Lady Alicia-Elizabeth Felicity Fforsythe Smallwood, “is the green drawing room. Would you care to remove your tie?”  
“So forward,” Mycroft replied, smiling. Her gracious hostess persona always failed to hide her dangerous edge, and it pleased him. Also, his tie bar was already in his pocket, as were his cufflinks. “Removing my tie in the drawing room. Shall I remove my collar as well?”  
The door snicked shut and she turned to face him.  
“"Surely you don't think this is a social call?" She closed the space between them. Predatory, Mycroft thought, so unlike her usual no-nonsense stride.  
The first time he had seen it had been disconcerting. She had invited him for a drink, but halfway through the Versos 1891, a complex negotiation had begun, and he had ended the evening on his knees, on the receiving end of a restrained yet effective spanking. He would remember her crossing the room in a graceful glide towards him, willow switch in hand, all his life long.  
"It’s definitely not about the South African affair. You are wearing new underthings, and the room smells delightfully citrusy. And unless I dreamed it, there was a distinct order for me to wear no pants today.”  
“Indeed,” she said, smiling. Mycroft watched each line of her beautiful face settle into place, but discerned nothing more than what he already knew: that he would end up blindfolded on the floor, and that he would—perhaps desperately—enjoy whatever she had prepared.  
With one long finger, she pulled his tie from his waistcoat.  
“Playing dirty?”  
“Something like that.”  
He reached for her pearls. The clasp fell apart under his skilled hands.  
“You may continue,” she said. Soon she stood before him, resplendent in dainty cream lingerie.  
“I fear,” she murmured against his mouth, “you have me at a disadvantage.”  
He laughed, then pressed his lips to her neck. “You know full well you would never cede an advantage.”  
“You’re still fully dressed.”  
“Only because you have a weakness for fine wool suiting.” He held her close so that his waistcoat brushed her ribcage. Her spine stiffened, but a brief intake of breath told him he had put his finger on her delight.  
“Do you—do you have any final requests?”  
“Surely you’re not about to do me in?” he breathed into her ear.  
“Depends on what you mean. Now, be serious.”  
“Very well. You have free rein.”  
“Over your clothes as well?”  
“I am concerned only for my trousers.”  
“And the tie?”  
“Do what you will with the tie.”  
“Right,” she said, and kissed him.  
Her mouth was soft and hard all at once, a deep, dizzying well. When she drew back, he leaned forward and captured her again, nipping her bottom lip and pulling her in. She indulged him, for a moment, but pushed him back much too soon. He regained his balance before his knees hit the deep gold chaise, but he was, just slightly, shaken.  
“Lie down,” she said, pressing her advantage.  
He stood stock-still, cuffs and collar undone, knees unbending.  
“I see.” She moved to his left side, stopped. Breathed in, breathed out. He waited, watching for the shake of her hand that showed she was carrying something dangerous.  
The crack across his thighs, when it came, was a benediction. Mycroft held firm, rocking back on his heels only a little. A telescoping pointer. How very characteristic.  
“Do stop thinking,” she said, “and lie down.”  
He looked at her--the side of her mouth was quirked up, and her rate of respiration was elevated.  
He didn’t move. The second crack brought him down, and the sting of the cane sent jolts of pleasure to his groin. He dropped to his knees, the Turkey carpet plush and soft.  
“Lie down,” she repeated, her breath faster still.  
“Yes,” he sighed, and slowly—slowly enough to earn himself another crack, this time over the shoulder--and lay immobile, waiting. She stretched up high, long and slender, then drew her camisole over her head. Lord, she was beautiful, the small curve of her breasts almost hiding her coffee-coloured nipples.  
Then she dropped the camisole down to cover his eyes. The scent of citrus and raw silk engulfed him.  
“If you move, this is over,” she said, waiting for him to still before she tucked the fabric under his head.  
She was quite serious, and so he did not move. He let her trail her fingers along his body and unbutton his shirt with slow precision before he dared do more than breathe deeply. She bent to lay a trail of sharp bites along his body: first his collarbone, then his nipples, then—good lord—his navel. He suppressed a writhe, but she read his restraint, and her breath as she laughed tickled his belly further.  
“Good boy,” she said, and bit him again, and again. He did not shake this time, but let his brain slowly become unmoored as she worked her way across his body. Her teeth sank into each pressure point, liberating each knot of nerves and erasing the outside world.  
He was floating by the time she sat back on her heels. The heat of her sex hovering over his only stoked his sense of utter well-being; his arousal, for now, was a secondary consideration. When she undid his trousers and drew them down over his hips, leaving his cock open to the air, he only drew a deeper breath and settled, really settled, into his body. It was lovely to feel after days of thinking and planning.  
Her weight shifted and he heard her reach for the drawer of the little table, as if from a great distance. When she came back, the citrus scent was closer. His nose twitched, and he fought to dissociate his body from his rising curiosity. What was she doing?  
“Mycroft,” she said, at the hitch in his breath. She pinched his nipple, roughly, and then again until he was once more all feeling and no thought. Then, and only then, did she set her mouth to his cock, none too gentle, engulfing the head deeply then swallowed him down as though he were some delicious beverage. As she increased her rhythm, his arousal rose up, becoming urgent; his cock twitched and his hips trembled under the pressure, though he remained as still as he could.  
Suddenly, she pulled off, and he was left bared and bereft. Her body shifted, and her mouth was replaced with a new, unfamiliar sensation. His mind, hazy with pleasure, struggled to work: he could feel (odd texture, slight acid sting) and hear (a faint, wet susurrus), but he could not—why could he not?—focus.  
Then, though, her mouth descended upon him once more, and pleasure surged through him. The base of his cock was receiving a cool, wet friction; her mouth was hot and messy, and though the source of the friction was a mystery, he was neither willing nor able to effect a further analysis. He was rapidly reaching his peak.  
She knew him so well, though—just before he reached the point of no return, she slowed her rhythm. He shuddered as his intense pleasure mellowed. Breathing in, then out, he caught the soft waves of delight until he reached a transcendent plateau of ecstasy, the scent of citrus strong in his nostrils. He hung there, all sensation, for a long moment before one delicious squeeze and one sharp bite at the tip of his cock propelled him into the stratosphere. Sun-kissed sparks of light filled his field of vision and he was transmuted into only delight.  
Afterwards, he floated back to earth, so hazy that he hardly registered her pleasure, her sex rubbing soft against his thigh, her quiet “oh”.  
He held her close when she collapsed next to him, borne on the soft waves of contentment his pleasure had provided. He blinked in an odd surprise as she drew the camisole from his face--he had forgotten his eyes were covered. A sticky drop fell from her hand to his cheek and, with an almost regretful rush, he was back to himself.  
“What have you done?” he asked, seizing her hand and kissing it; he let his tongue slide out from between his lips to taste. The flavour was not what one might expect from a semi-illicit tryst in a lady’s drawing room.  
“That is for you to tell me, Mycroft,” she said, rolling over and smiling. “The evidence is clear.”  
He raised his head and licked his lips again.  
“Oranges?” His earlier sensations fell into place. “Oranges. Whatever gave you that idea?”  
She laughed.  
“Oranges.”  
His earlier sensations fell into place--the stickiness, the sting, the susurrus.  
“Whatever gave you that idea?”  
“A YouTube video that your bro--”  
“Never mind.”  
“No, it’s quite clever… although messy. You slice off the ends, then cut...”  
“Please,” he said, and kissed her to make her stop. She licked his lips and he tasted juice and bitterness.  
“It was funny, Mycroft.”  
“Quite.”  
“And after all,” she said, in a pitch-perfect American accent, “Every man deserves to get grapefruited.”  
“I presume the orange was not in honour of our recent South African triumph, then?  
She raised her eyebrow and Mycroft reconsidered. Brazil? Florida? If this was about Florida was, he was going to take several long showers. Lady Smallwood had been awfully reticent on the subject of her relationship with Martha Hudson. He looked at her closely.  
Then, her mouth twitched.  
“Heartburn?” he asked. “It’s heartburn?”  
“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, as sternly as she could, “I manage a secret government department full of old, rich white men. Of course I have heartburn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks also very much to girlwhowearsglasses for the heartburn line. That's all her, and it's perfection.


End file.
